


Noble Cause

by IthacaontheMove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animal Abuse, Corruption, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Steter Secret Santa, Steter Secret Santa 2020, Talia Hale Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IthacaontheMove/pseuds/IthacaontheMove
Summary: Territorial disputes often resulted in pain, misery, and/or death. The trick was to make it someone else’s.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 16
Kudos: 199





	Noble Cause

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wineabout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wineabout/gifts).



> For @thewineabout on tumblr. I think I ended up checking maybe one of your boxes lol. Hope you enjoy it, anyway! :)

The wolf head was meant to be intimidating. It took up half the wall behind Sheriff Kate Argent’s desk and the snarling visage framed the top of her head like a furry crown. The red eyes and blood on the teeth, since clearly the taxidermist was the melodramatic type, only added to the over-the-top image.

Stiles tried not to look at it. He could feel trickles of sweat running down his back and into his underwear. The suit itched something awful but he couldn’t tell if it was the cheapness of the material or the situation. He hated formal wear—every bad thing in his life had involved it.

Sheriff Argent had his personnel file open on her desk. This too he tried to ignore.

He knew word for word what it contained. After he was let go from his previous job, he needed to see the damage done and had “requisitioned” the file from the records room. Luckily, some schmuck in the department that had fallen for a phishing scam had put the desire to go full digital on hold, thus allowing Stiles to get his hands on an old-fashioned paper copy. Technically, it wouldn’t even be labeled a B&E since Stiles had the key made his first week in the office. It wasn’t his fault they never asked for it back.

The psych eval at the beginning was the least of his problems, and it contained such colorful phrases as “problems with authority” and “impulse control issues.”

“Why don’t we start things off by you telling me a bit about yourself, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Okay, well, first of all, you can call me Stiles,” he began, noticing her bypass the use of his first name as almost everyone did. “My dad was a cop so I practically grew up in police stations. I knew my whole life I wanted to be in law enforcement”—mostly true, although there had been times his dad was convinced he would end up on the other side of the law—“and I joined the academy right out of high school. I passed with flying colors”—best grades in his class, thank you very much—“and joined Ridgeville PD immediately afterwards. Got my bachelor’s in Criminal Justice later on after I had some experience under my belt.”

“I can see you also had a 4.0 when getting your degree. Can you describe a time you had to maintain a balance between school and work?”

“Pretty much anytime I had a paper due at the same time as a shift”—crap, did that make it sound like he couldn’t handle the workload?— “but the school catered to working students so they were pretty flexible about my schedule.” Great, now he made it sound like he was giving all the credit to someone else.

Sheriff Argent was flipping through the pages in his file. “Tell me about your strengths and weaknesses.”

“Strengths, okay, I’d say I’m very passionate about my work and will work as hard as I can until a case is closed or until I’ve exhausted every lead. I’ve been told several times I have an uncanny grasp of procedural knowledge”—this had not been a compliment—“that gives me an edge both on and off the field.

“As for weaknesses,” Stiles paused here and made sure he maintained eye contact, again avoiding the file at all costs. “For weaknesses, I’m what I would describe as an independent thinker which means I don’t always agree with what my superiors tell me. This can lead to conflict at times.”

Stiles left it at that. Years of sticking his foot in his mouth had given him some discretion, though nothing to write home about.

Sheriff Argent gazed at him steadily. The wolf head loomed over her. The sweat was pooling in Stiles’ butt crack.

Finally, she shook her head and shot him a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s cut the crap, Stilinski. You and I both know what’s in here.” She tapped the file with her manicured nail. “Numerous complaints, reprimands for everything under the sun, and what I like to call the big kahuna, a letter written personally by your previous captain advising strongly against hiring you for any position in law enforcement.”

That had been the real killer. Stiles was of the personal opinion that his old captain was an incompetent investigator in addition to being a pain in his ass and they had not seen eye to eye on many things. Unfortunately, the higher up the chain you went in law enforcement, the browner your nose became, and his captain’s nose had been what Crayola named burnt sienna. It greased a lot of wheels. As a result, Stiles had been effectively blacklisted from every precinct he had applied to. This was the first interview he had gotten in almost six months.

Sheriff Argent could probably smell his desperation in addition to his sweat.

He had prepared a heavily redacted response in light of exactly this scenario, however. “My former captain and I had a disagreement involving a case. We mutually decided there were no further growth opportunities in my current position.”

Mutual my ass, Stiles thought darkly. He had been harassed, bullied, and denied backup and still refused to quit. His pride would accept nothing less. Eventually, his captain had found his balls and fired him.

It had all started with two cases of vandalism in Stiles’ neighborhood beat, a coffee shop which had its windows busted and an Italian food joint where someone had set a small fire. Allowing the possibility of the two incidents being related, he scoured the financials of the two businesses until he had a promising connection: a series of cash withdrawals of the same amount taken out every third Tuesday of the month.

The third Tuesday of the next month found Stiles outside the coffee shop with some camera equipment. Neither of the two places had cameras posted at the entrance, so he had called in a favor from a fellow officer who was watching the Italian place under strict instructions to snap a picture of everyone who went in and out. Stiles did the same at the coffee shop, then compared them with the other pictures to see if there were any similarities.

Lo and behold, who should show up in both sets of film but fellow denizen of the law Tyler Clark. Clark was a veteran of the department, currently working as a detective in Vice (oh, the irony!), well-liked and well-connected. If Stiles went after him for a shakedown operation, he would have to do it carefully and by the book before the blue line came down hard.

The problem was Clark covered his tracks well, as befitting an experienced cop. Clark could claim coincidence being at both businesses on the same day, so the photos were useless. There was no record of the bribe money in his bank statements. An increasingly frustrated Stiles had gone through every channel available to him: he talked once more to the owners of the businesses trying to get a name or description of anyone suspicious, he reinterviewed witnesses and retook statements, he reviewed nearby surveillance footage, all for naught.

Stiles did, believe it or not (and he knew there were some that would have trouble believing it), have lines he did not cross. This was not one of them. Clark had the nerve to mess with Stiles’ people. He had been working that beat for over two years. It was his territory and no one else’s. Clark had broken the unwritten cop code of conduct regarding interference and he would pay.

Once Stiles stopped worrying about pesky things like rule of law, it was easy to find what he needed. Viciously cutting through information with a red pen, Stiles discovered Clark was deep in debt, probably due to gambling if his trips to Vegas were any indication. He was having trouble maintaining his current lifestyle, which was way too lavish for a detective’s salary. Definitely on the take in other areas as well. Given that he worked in Vice it was most likely drug money related.

Really, it was like Clark was handing Stiles the noose to hang himself with. There was currently over $200,000 in the evidence locker from a recent bust. It mysteriously went missing one afternoon. Per protocol, everyone who had access to the locker was investigated first. What a coincidence that Detective Clark should have recently purchased a beach condo for an amount close to $200,000.

It was IA who took his badge in the end. But it was Stiles who had the pleasure of ruining Clark’s reputation, his third marriage, and his credit score. Three years’ probation complete with an electronic tracking anklet. The dog was leashed. A fitting end for a man foolish enough to cross Stiles’ turf.

Of course, Clark insisted it was a frame job, and considering his last act involved businesses on Stiles’ beat, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. The captain was a friend of Clark’s and made Stiles’ life miserable in retaliation.

Hence, the need for HR bullshit. You couldn’t simply say “my boss was an asshole” even though any working stiff would understand at once.

Sheriff Argent seemed to take it well. Score! Stiles sent a fervent prayer of thanks to askamanager.com. Half of them were psychotic and the other half obvious aliens, yet they knew their stuff on talking corporate.

“I think I’ve heard everything I need. Do you have any questions for me?”

Stiles went through the usual list: salary, job duties, work environment, etc. on autopilot. His feet felt like wooden blocks when he stood to shake the Sheriff’s hand.

“Just one more thing,” she called him back as he beat a hasty retreat for the door. “You forgot to ask me when you can start. We could use a creative mind like yours on the force. Congratulations, Mr. Stilinski, you’re hired.”

Stiles must have said or done something in response, though he could not say what it had been. His eyes were focused on Sheriff Argent’s smiling face, which for a moment seemed to match the wolf on the wall.

* * *

It was the end of a long night. The patrol car was stifling, and Stiles rolled down the window to get some fresh air. Every patrol car he’d ever been in had that same smell—a mix of stale food, vomit, and BO. Some days he swore it lingered in his nostrils even after he’d showered. He craned his neck forward and looked through the dirty windshield. Waxing gibbous moon, the old humpback. Stiles could relate. Some days he believed his back would be permanently stuck in the shape of a question mark from untold hours of hunching at a desk and over a steering wheel.

Being the new guy at the sheriff station involved doing the brunt of the bitch work which for Stiles meant late night shifts. Don’t get him wrong, he was grateful as hell for the opportunity. He had resigned himself to a lifetime of mall cop shenanigans if he didn’t land this job. That didn’t stop his overactive cop sense from tickling his senses.

Beacon Hills’ sheriff station was like a rehabilitation clinic for washed-out, questionable deputies. Stiles had marked several guys who had serious anger issues. There was the one who hosted his own blog about the “necessary” extermination of “vermin”, and another who had canceled all his numerous speeding tickets. Meat-eaters, grass-eaters, Stiles wasn’t throwing any stones here (his house was glass), but frankly he was starting to suspect his record had been the reason for his hiring rather than that he was hired in spite of it.

Sheriff Argent was the friendly type of boss who told you she was always available to talk. She had an interesting family history.

The Argents were loaded, both figuratively and literally. The father, Gerard, had started a gun shop when he was twenty which eventually evolved into a full-fledged gun dealership operation, Argent Arms International, all federally licensed and above board. The son, Chris, had inherited the business and did side work as a security consultant.

Kate had been elected sheriff of Beacon County running in an unopposed election after the previous sheriff had been shot on the job. The next election she also ran unopposed. And the one after that.

The whole thing stank. Stiles’ money was on CIA or illegal arms sales. There was a sizable contingent of the family located in France, another black mark against them. Excessive French was always a red flag.

Turning to make his last loop around the block, his imagination running wild with the likelihood of the Argents being foreign spies, Stiles almost missed the two men running full tilt into a dark alleyway.

Before they turned the corner, he spotted the telltale bulge in their clothes that said they were packing. They might be part of the “neighborhood watch” Sheriff Argent had boasted about. She handed out CCW licenses like candy, which Stiles had figured out on his first day after a training officer had handed him a list of approved names four pages long.

Habit had him blocking off the entrance of the alley with the car and reaching for the radio. His hand hovered there for a second, remembering the last time he had tried to call for backup. It might not even be a hot call. The men were in a hurry but had not drawn their weapons.

He decided to forego the radio and got out of the car. An automatic check of his gun and badge and he was trudging into the alley, cursing any and all such places for existing, especially for deputies who were about to go home after a long day.

He came upon the men kicking a dark shape on the ground. Stiles clicked on his flashlight, noting their builds and facial structures. No visible tattoos or scarring. Aha! Custom made steel-toed boots, judging by the metal appliqué on the toes of one of the men. Stiles, who had responded to many domestic disturbance calls, was very familiar with the particular whump sound they made when hitting flesh.

They startled at the sudden addition of light. “Gentlemen,” Stiles said, careful to keep his hand away from his weapon. The last thing he needed was a bullet wound from trigger happy gun nuts. “Why are you in a dark alley at 2 AM, beating up on a”—he flashed his light on the dark shape—“dog?”

“Motherfucker scratched me,” one of the men said. Sure enough, the flashlight revealed five long bloody gashes on his arm. “If you ask me, they should all be put down—”

His companion elbowed him in the side. “Shut up,” he hissed. “This one’s new.”

“I’m assuming this isn’t your dog?” It had taken advantage of the lull in activity to crawl under a nearby dumpster. “I’m going to have to make a call to animal control. Can I get your names?”

They took off running down the street. Stiles chased after them, at a distinct disadvantage on these unfamiliar roads, and quickly they were lost in the night. No matter, Stiles thought he could identify them based on the shoes alone. After a few wrong turns, he made his way back to the alley.

There was a whimpering from the dumpster. He pulled up the number for animal control bitter experience had taught him to program into his phone as soon as he could, along with poison control and a good barber. For the second time that night, he hesitated.

If animal control followed up on the dog attack, they could declare it dangerous and maybe have it destroyed. Stiles could buy retaliation in the name of self-defense, but he had seen those men chase the dog into the alley. That was a purposeful and malicious act of revenge.

It was the injustice of it all, Stiles lamented as he tucked his phone back in his pocket. It had nothing to do with the pathetic noises coming from the dumpster. Nothing at all. Knowing he was about to do something extremely stupid, he slowly crouched down onto the pavement.

Stiles stuck his flashlight under the dumpster and promptly suffered a fatal heart attack.

Okay, Stiles thought as the adrenaline rapidly pumping through his system made him acutely aware his heart was still beating. Maybe that was an exaggeration.

Under the dumpster was the biggest dog he had ever seen.

Stiles had been around police dogs all his life—large, fierce animals trained to attack on command—but this one really took those qualities to a whole new level.

It had light brown fur and golden eyes that glowed under the shine of his flashlight. It must be at least three feet tall when standing, with muscular shoulders and powerful looking legs. No obvious collar, though the fur around its neck was so thick it was hard to tell.

Stiles squatted there on the dirty ground until his thighs burned with lactic acid. He still did not move.

The dog continued to look at him with those eerie eyes. At long last, it sniffed the air once, twice, before wrinkling its nose and sneezing. Then its tongue lolled out in a doggy grin.

Stiles snapped. That sweet, sweet adrenaline was wearing off, his shift had almost been over before he was menaced by a huge dog, and now it had the nerve to call him smelly and laugh at him! (It was possible he was reading too much into it but Stiles’ fear reactions had never worked quite right.)

“You think you’re the big dog on campus but let me tell you something,” Stiles said to it. He floundered, searching for ways he could tell this dog off. He caught sight of the flashlight in his hand and inspiration struck. “Light, baby! Mankind has mastered using electricity. You don’t even have opposable thumbs! What would you do if you saw a fire? Probably not cook your meat and start civilization.”

The dog inched closer to him. “Okay, okay, you win! You are the apex predator; I bow before you.”

Bit by bit, it wiggled forward until it was free of the protective dumpster embrace. Now that it was in the open and under light, Stiles could examine it more closely. It was not a pretty sight. There were lacerations all over its body. One whole side was saturated in blood and the right back leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. How it had managed to drag itself under the dumpster was anyone’s guess. Did dogs get adrenaline rushes too?

It obviously needed a vet. The question was how to get it back to the car on that leg. Fighting off flashbacks to middle school when he had been teased for his scrawny arms, Stiles determined there was no way he could lift a dog that big.

“Stay,” he told the dog, and fetched a tarp out of the trunk. He laid it out on the ground. “This is gonna suck, buddy. Please don’t bite me. Rabies is not included on my list of fun times.”

To his surprise, the dog spotted the tarp and dragged itself on top of it without any assistance from Stiles. Weird. It must be trained or something.

The real trouble started when he tried to put it in the car.

Stiles spent the next five minutes of his life struggling to get this ungrateful bastard of a dog into his patrol car. Good thing there was no one around to see him make a fool of himself as he alternately gestured, threatened, cajoled, and outright begged. The thing would not budge.

“What is your problem?” Stiles asked. The dog just glared mulishly at him. “Is it the odor? Is this part of your ongoing commentary against the Stilinski funk?”

Predictably, the dog did not answer.

“Do you want me to call you a limousine? Perhaps return with an engraved invitation?”

The dog perked up and let out a sharp bark at this.

“Seriously? I’m not calling you a limousine. If the car’s the problem, I guess I could run back to the station and grab mine,” Stiles said, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. He would be the one to find a dog with a phobia of police cars. “We’re only a couple blocks away. Would a Jeep suit your taste?”

The dog barked again. This was getting creepy. “Ugh, fine, I will return this perfectly good car to the station and go and get a new car that you can then proceed to cover in various bodily fluids and fur.” Good thing he was an expert at getting blood out of upholstery. “If I come back and you’re gone, I’m going to assume you’re dead and I won’t lose any sleep over it, either.”

The dog was lying on the tarp like a well-behaved gentleman when Stiles returned with the Jeep. They managed through some trial and error to get it inside; Stiles found the closest and apparently only veterinary clinic in town, and they were off.

The sign on the door said 9-6 but there was a light on inside. Animal lovers were workaholics, too. Who knew?

“Stay,” he said once more to the dog and got out to pound on the door.

The man who opened it was about his age with floppy brown hair and brown eyes and eyed Stiles’ uniform like he was afraid it would jump out and bite him.

“Yeah, I’ve got an injured dog beast thing out here. Can you help it?”

This snapped the man out of his daze. “Of course, let me just grab my kit.”

He rushed out the door a minute later. “Oh my god, Liam!”

“You know this dog?” Stiles asked.

The man began manhandling the dog. “Dog? Liam’s not a—I mean, yes, this is my dog. My dog Liam.”

“Not Skip?” Stiles couldn’t help adding. Only to be ignored by both man and dog. No accounting for taste, either of them. “What kind of a name is Liam, anyway?”

“Can you tell me what happened? He’s got a broken leg and lacerations everywhere. There may be internal bleeding,” the man said as he palpated the thing’s stomach.

It let out another pathetic whimper. Nominate it for the Oscars already, people! “Some jerks were beating him up in an alley. I rode in on a white horse and saved the damsel in distress. They took off before I could get their names and call animal control, though. And if you report it, they’ll nail you instead for having him off leash. Thing scratched up one of the bozos pretty good.”

“Liam doesn’t have a leash,” the man said, rather unwisely.

“Um, hello, please don’t say that to me. You’re talking to a sworn officer of the law here. At least pretend a little bit.”

The man ignored him. “Can you help me get him inside? I’m going to call my boss.”

* * *

The examination room was cold, and Stiles fought the urge to shiver.

The newly introduced Scott McCall must have noticed his discomfort. “I think I have an extra jacket around here somewhere.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is one of the more temperate hospitals I’ve been in.” Even if the sterile feel made Stiles feel claustrophobic.

“This isn’t a hospital.”

“Close enough.” Liam agreed with him if the way he was eyeing Scott with trepidation was any indication.

“You don’t have to stay, you know. Dr. Deaton will be here any minute.”

“Liam needs moral support, don’t you buddy?” The dog glared at him. Scarily smart.

Scott persisted. “I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of your time. You said you had just gotten off shift?”

Smart dog, stupid human. “I want to make sure he’s alright, so I’ll stay if your boss doesn’t mind.”

“What will I mind?” came a mild voice from the doorway. Stiles wondered if Scott’s boss had been waiting around for the perfect dramatic entrance.

“Dr. Deaton, this is Deputy Stilinski. He found some guys kicking Liam and brought him in.”

“I see,” Dr. Deaton said. “Liam has gotten himself into trouble again.”

“He a repeat customer?” Stiles asked, sympathizing with Liam as he shrank under the doctor’s perusal. Again, the intelligence from the dog unsettled him. It was an almost human reaction.

“He often finds his way here.” More manhandling. Liam seemed resigned to his fate.

“What kind of dog is he anyway?” Stiles asked. “Scott here said he was half wolf.”

The vet raised an eyebrow at Scott. “Did he now? You can rest assured Deputy Stilinski—”

“You can call me Stiles,” he cut in.

“Your name is Stiles Stilinski and you make fun of Liam’s name?” Scott whined. Liam joined the chorus as well.

“That’s right and I’d do it again.”

“Deputy Stilinski,” the vet continued. “Liam will be alright. I do not detect any signs of internal bleeding and most of the lacerations appear to be shallow. I’ll take him back to do some X-rays but he should be on his feet again in no time.”

Liam wagged his tail and tried to jump off the table; Scott and Dr. Deaton held him down. Stiles, who recalled the uncertain movements in the alley, was astonished to see him moving so well after so short a time. Maybe the lacerations were the dog equivalent of head wounds and just bled a lot.

“I’ll see you guys around.” Stiles got to his feet, feeling his bones creak in his joints. “Maybe with a leash next time,” he added, not specifying who the leash was for.

By the time Stiles made it home, he was determined to go to bed immediately and be well rested for his next shift for once. Instead, he pulled out his laptop and began googling.

_How smart are dogs_

* * *

“Geez, Stilinski, you look like shit,” was the cheery greeting Stiles received at the sheriff station coffee pot the next morning.

“I’m so glad I came into work today so I could hear you state the obvious, Garcia.” Stiles willed the coffee to drip faster.

“Fuck you, man,” Garcia said good-naturedly. “Did you get lucky?”

Only if you counted going down a rabbit hole of dog intelligence lucky. Some breeds were apparently smarter than others, like border collies and poodles. There was a border collie named Chaser who knew over a thousand words. And wolves were considered smarter than dogs in some areas but not others. All in all, it was a total bust. Nothing Stiles had read could explain how Liam seemed to understand entire sentences.

“Nah, no luck for me.” Stiles wanted to change the subject from his current dry spell. “Hey, you know any shoe stores around here?”

“Why, you need some shoes?”

“No, I’m in the market for some curtains. Yes, I need shoes. I have some old sneakers that have seen better days.” And the need to investigate some animal beaters.

“Try Lola’s. Best shoe store in town. They give us the shoes for our uniforms, you know?” Thankfully, the coffee at long last finished its never-ending stream into his cup and Stiles made his escape, already plotting out a route to Lola’s on his phone.

What Google maps hadn’t revealed, Stiles discovered when he parked, was a quaint little storefront with an awning and cursive lettering on the window. No doubt they had been squeezed into this corner of downtown for years.

Lola turned out to be an actual old woman named Lola who sold shoes. She had one of those ancient torture foot things and a no-nonsense attitude. She was willing enough to answer Stiles’ questions, especially when he told her he was there to buy a pair of shoes too.

Yes, she remembered those boots well. They were custom orders which she made bank on. Instead of steel in the toe, there was a silver lining on the inside and flecks of silver on the outside. It wasn’t pure silver but an alloy of some kind, she wasn’t too sure of the details. Some of them did have a wolf head appliqué and those were more expensive.

She demurred at first when Stiles asked who placed the order, not wanting to make trouble for anyone, then admitted it was Kate Argent when he asked again outright. Stiles did his due diligence and gave her a description of the two dog kickers, and Lola did not recognize them.

Stiles attempted to fit it all together in his mind as he drove home. Wasn’t using silver taking things a bit too literally? Stiles had done some more digging into the Argent history and found a legend about one of their ancestors slaying the Beast of Gèvaudan, a supposed wolf-like creature. Okay, so they went all in on the Argent/silver/wolf thing. That wasn’t a good enough reason to form a private militia.

It was clear to Stiles that’s what Kate Argent was doing. The excessive gun licenses, the neighborhood watch, even the fact that she hired Stiles with no reservations. Worse, the wolf appliqué on the boots implied a hierarchy. It wasn’t just a couple local yokels getting together to drink beer and bitch about the second amendment. This was a full-fledged operation. Why? For what purpose?

And most importantly, how would it affect Stiles?

* * *

“Peter, get your ridiculously overpriced boots off my coffee table,” Talia hissed at him under her breath.

“Make me.” Peter kept his feet firmly planted on the table. If Talia wanted to take her frustration out on him, he wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t the one who had sent Liam out on a disastrous mission to get intel. And it wasn’t his table. First, he would never own something this tacky. Second, he swore he could still smell smoke everywhere in this house, including the furniture, even though the contractors had done a good job salvaging the large mansion house into a smaller livable space. Third, he had his own perfectly serviceable table back at his apartment, where he wished he was right at this moment.

He licked his finger and turned the page of the book he was reading. Scott was going on and on in the background about something or other. Peter had stopped listening after the relevant facts were revealed. Namely, Liam injured and rescued by a new deputy who had no knowledge of the supernatural.

Talia remained unconvinced. Her strident tone was impossible to ignore and Peter closed his book in despair. “He could’ve been faking it—trying to throw you off or get into your good graces. No way Kate Argent hires someone completely clueless.”

In fact, most of Kate Argent’s hires appeared to be cowboy cops and ex-military types with their collective intelligence rating on the low end of the mediocrity spectrum. You didn’t need smarts to menace people and wield a gun.

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that,” Scott said. “Liam, back me up here.”

“It’s true,” Liam piped up faithfully on command as always. Such an obedient little cur. “I got a good whiff of him when I was in my wolf form. He smelled genuine.”

Never mind that distinguishing human emotions through smell was an extremely complex process with a high chance of failure. How did one smell honesty on a person? Or love? Or fear? A newly bitten wolf like Liam, no matter how talented he was at shapeshifting, would have trouble.

“Perhaps you were mistaken,” Talia said gently.

They argued back and forth. Talia gave the new wolves too much leeway. If Peter were Alpha, he would do things differently. Eliminate the threat before they became a thorn in his side. He had woken up from his three-week coma hungry for Argent blood. He wanted to act at once. Talia had cautioned restraint and here they were. With the thorn in their sides having grown branches and roots and into an entire forest. But that was an old argument.

Besides, it was obvious Talia was sublimating her maternal feelings onto the new members of her pack. She sent Laura, Derek, and Cora away after the fire and missed them terribly.

Both Scott and Liam had been casualties of the guerrilla warfare between the Argents and Hales. The citizens were convinced it was a large-scale gang turf war, and in a way they were right.

Scott had been shot in the neck by a stray wolfsbane bullet meant for Talia. After fishing it out and purifying the bullet wound, she had bitten him right then and there. He would have bled out otherwise, she explained ruefully when an understandably freaked out Scott had woken up. He didn’t seem to mind too much, grateful to be alive.

Liam had suffered blunt force trauma, thanks to the unfortunate collision between his head and a hunter’s improvised golf club weapon—one wide swing and it was lights out. Liam was in the wrong place at the wrong time; in this case, he had investigated some noises he really should have ignored. Peter got a lot of mileage out of yelling “fore” and watching him duck out of the way before the joke got too old.

They weren’t the only casualties in this most dangerous game the Argents were playing but they were the only ones who could be turned without risking too much.

Talia was caving. She appealed to Lydia. “Do you think you could…get close to this deputy? Figure out what he knows?”

“Get close to him? I guess I could try even though I don’t have much experience in _seducing_ strange men.” Talia winced at the emphasis on the word. “Studies suggest that over a third of police officers have been involved in a domestic violence dispute. As a woman, that’s concerning to me. I still have nightmares about the attack,” she said, lip quivering.

“Of course, my dear.” Talia looked alarmed. “Don’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

Peter caught the edge of Lydia’s smug smirk before she went back to filing her nails. More and more, he regretted biting her.

Lydia had been the result of a…disagreement between him and Talia. Peter had gone briefly insane and stolen her Alpha spark, as one does. He came across Lydia and, in her words, mauled her to death. Needless to say, she was not pleased to awaken as a banshee. Her continued association with the werewolves was a result of self-preservation more than anything—the Argents knew she came back wrong.

Talia and Peter clashed for a second time and she took the Alpha spark back. All’s well that ends well. The elephant in the room could move around as it pleased because neither he nor Talia ever mentioned it.

“Scott, do you think this Stilinski would go for Peter instead of Lydia?”

“Uh, I think he would go for either of them, honestly. Or both.”

“Peter will do it, won’t you, Peter?”

“No,” he said just to be contrary.

“We can help, too,” Scott said. “He already knows Liam as a dog. We can meet up at the park or something. The other cops won’t confront us if he’s there.”

“There might be something wrong with him, though,” Liam said. “Mentally.”

“What, he’s stupid?” Talia asked.

“Not that way. It’s just,” Liam faltered. “You know how big I am in my wolf form. He got right down on the ground at face level. I’m pointing it out, that’s all.”

So, this new deputy didn’t mind a little danger. Interesting. Peter could definitely work with that. Not that he was agreeing to this ridiculous plan. He cursed his decision to get out of bed this morning.

“Wait, does this mean I have to wear a leash?” Liam’s eyes widened in horror.

Peter celebrated his decision to get out of bed this morning.

* * *

Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski needed to get a life. Peter had been following him for a week now and the man had yet to venture anywhere that wasn’t the sheriff station, his patrol routes, or his sad little apartment complex. If he committed a mass murder, the media would label him a loner with no regrets.

He also took a frankly hideous driver’s license picture, Peter thought. It didn’t do him any justice at all.

Peter of course had shown up for his own driver’s license picture with perfectly styled hair and dress. The DMV had kicked him out after the tenth time he insisted on a retake from a slightly different angle to get his best side (working with inferior equipment was a challenge) and yet it had resulted in such a magnum opus. A little effort went a long way.

That day found him crouched in the bushes in the park, watching Stilinski and Scott throw a frisbee for Liam.

When Talia pressganged him into accepting this mission of seduction, Peter resolved to do some surveillance first. He wasn’t _Derek_ , for god’s sake, jumping into bed with anyone who showed him a hint of interest. He had standards.

Eventually, Peter had to admit Liam was right. Stilinski had no idea werewolves existed. Which was a shame because the way he patrolled his beat—he was a wolf in human form. Jealously guarding his pack from outside intruders, making sure they were safe, defending his territory. Warmth pooled pleasantly in Peter’s belly every time he thought about it.

“—like wolves?” His numb ass was apparently transmitting signals to his brain. He tuned back in to the conversation.

“I guess so. I’ve only ever seen them in zoos and stuff. There are no wolves in California.” A beat. “Besides this one, I mean. And I’m beginning to think he’s actually half gerbil, not half wolf.” At the moment, Liam was chasing his tail.

“They can be territorial.”

This was funny to Stilinski judging by his grin. “Aren’t we all.”

Peter fought the urge to stalk forward and shake the secrets from Stilinski’s brain and worked instead on devising a plan to get close to him.

The choice was taken from him two days later. Peter was watching from the shadows when Stilinski stepped out of his apartment and started walking to his Jeep, only for him to suddenly veer off to the side out of his line of sight. Peter was debating whether it was worth it or not to break his cover when he heard the telltale click of a safety switching off behind him.

He turned and was met with the sight of Stilinski pointing his service gun at his chest. His hands were steady, his stance wide and open. A good little cop following his training and aiming at center mass. Peter rapidly revised his plans.

“Explain.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I stepped outside for a cigarette. Now you’re pointing a gun at me. Shouldn’t you be the one explaining?”

Stilinski didn’t bother mentioning the absence of a cigarette anywhere on his person. “You’ve been following me. Why?”

So he had noticed. Peter stepped closer and fought the urge to smile when the gun didn’t waver.

“You’re good at figuring things out, Stiles.” Stilinski didn’t even wince at the use of his preferred name. “I’m sure you’ve noticed how many of your fellow officers should have been suspended or fired long ago. Why would Kate Argent hire them? Not to mention the…colorful, for lack of a better word, history of the Argent family. But you don’t have all the pieces. I can give that to you, if you care to know.”

Peter had spent countless hours stalking Stilinski. He did not feel fear when the deputy pointed his weapon at him, although he knew Kate Argent would ensure all her men were provided with wolfsbane bullets. There was a time a younger Peter Hale would have risked his life merely for the thrill of it. These days he made sure to always have an ace in his back pocket.

Curiosity. This was Stilinski’s weakness. Peter knew he won when he saw the spark flare in Stilinski’s eyes.

As such he was able to calmly walk forward until the muzzle of the gun was flush against him. He leered and reached out to lower the gun until it was pointing at his crotch. It had the bonus of clearly unnerving Stilinski. “The Hale house fire. Look into it. Don’t let the others know. I’ll be in touch.”

It was nigh impossible for Peter to turn his back on an unknown, particularly one in Kate Argent’s employ, but he managed it. How else would Stilinski get a good view of one of his best assets?

* * *

The man stalking him was totally getting added to The List. The List was an ongoing project of Stiles’. It consisted of all the strange things that had occurred since he set foot in Beacon Hills. So far The List had:

_the wolf head_

_Argent Arms International—possible CIA connection?_

_Blackmail_

_CCW licenses_

_the silver-toed boots and the wolf applique_

_the wolf-dog Liam_

_workaholic vets_

_stalker man_

_miscellaneous_

He had a board set up and everything. Right now, it mostly consisted of red string but that could change. Oh yes, with this new information, that could change.

Stiles had first noticed the stalker a couple of days ago when the hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up. The body always knew first. He set eyes on the man some time later, and from then on he knew when he was being watched.

He had dealt with stalkers in his line of work before and decided to force a confrontation. Being told to investigate a fire had not been among his expectations. Why didn’t the man call 911 like a normal person?

Fortunately, Stiles had connections. He texted his dad.

dad hominem   
  
is stalking still a crime if your stalker is super hot   
  
we’re talking smoking here   
  
what   
  
yes

His phone started ringing. “Stiles,” was all his dad said.

“He’s criminally hot. Get it? Criminal?”

“Why. What are you doing with your life?”

“Great things, dad. Great things. By the way, I need a favor.”

“For once, can I call you for a friendly chat?”

“Ha ha. Seriously, this is important.”

“I’m retired, Stiles.”

“Admit it, the bocce ball life is not for you. Come on, I know you miss being in the thick of it. This one’s a doozy, I promise.” Judging by the intensity in the man’s eyes, anyway.

“Fine, what do you need?” Hook, line, and sinker.

His dad sent him the file on the Hale house fire. It wasn’t very thick.

Eight family members dead. The insurance investigator had ruled it an accident. The report said electrical malfunction, possible arson.

Buried deep in an incident report from the fire inspector was a single line: _mysterious residue found around home—sent to lab for analysis_. Stiles searched for the lab report and found the results. Wolfsbane. Ultimately, the lead investigator deemed it a red herring.

He stared at the picture of the rather crispy Peter Hale, the only known survivor (four other family members had been outside the house at the time), and the identity of his stalker. Not even burns could hide those cheekbones.

Yikes, three weeks in a coma. A man like Peter Hale would probably hate feeling powerless as much as Stiles did. Stiles didn’t recall any burn scars.

He dug into the police reports from the previous weeks his dad included. Their thought patterns were worryingly similar at times. Nothing stood out except a series of animal attacks before the fire.

He double checked the dates. The fire took place the same year Sheriff Argent was elected.

He had all the pieces; it was just a matter of putting them together. What did all the evidence point to?

He was hesitant to voice the thought aloud, it seemed so outrageous. “Werewolves.”

Everything clicked into place.

* * *

How long does one wait before their stalker contacts them?

This was the quandary Stiles faced. The initial shock of his discovery had worn off, and all he was left with were questions.

_So many_ questions.

And the one man who could answer them nowhere to be found. Peter Hale needed to provide some exposition, dammit!

He jumped when his phone rang.

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter Hale said.

“How did you get this number?”

“I have my ways.”

“Fine, don’t tell me. What do you want?”

“I want you to help me take down the Argents. In exchange I’ll tell you everything I know about werewolves.”

Stiles would play along with him for now. “Just don’t ask me to meet you in a dark alley. Or in the middle of the forest. Will you be fully clothed for this meeting?” Stiles wondered, thinking of that ritual where you bathed in the light of the full moon. He couldn’t remember if it was for fertility or good fortune. His mind instantly drew up a picture of Peter Hale naked in a bathtub.

“Clothing optional,” Hale replied. Stiles could hear the amusement in his voice. “I have an apartment.” He rattled off the address.

Stiles couldn’t contain his disappointment when he showed up at the address Hale had given him to a finely dressed, decidedly not naked, man.

* * *

They met several times throughout the next few weeks, always in different locations in case they were being followed. Stiles left his work phone at home. He had already spent hours googling different types of rocks on it for any NSA folks who may be watching.

Little by little, Hale revealed more information. Stiles soaked it all up like an extremely dehydrated sponge. At some point, without his knowledge, Hale became Peter.

“Why not just leave town?” Stiles asked at one point.

“There would be an APB out within minutes.”

“What’s stopping them from arresting you all now? If they have as much control over this town as you say, they don’t need to wait for you to step out of line to trump up some charges.”

“Pride, mainly. Hunters are supposed to stick to a code. We did do some damage at the beginning of this mess but now we can barely hold our ground. They know they have us in a bind. It’s like we’re—”

“Trophies,” Stiles said, an image of a stuffed wolf head in his mind.

Peter nodded. “This way they can have absolute power while still putting on a good face for the hunter world at large.”

“What about other werewolves? Werewolf allies? Can’t they come help you?”

“Beacon Hills is a closed circle. Nothing and no one gets in or out that the Argents don’t know about. As far as they know, we’re dead.”

Cutting off the supply lines, very nice. Stiles could appreciate these tactics since information would be vital to any counterattack the wolves went with.

Sometimes the questions were more personal, as Stiles learned when he tried to bluff his way through Peter asking him why Kate Argent hired him.

“Werewolves can smell a lie, you know. Your heartbeat gives you away.”

“Wait, seriously? Does it work all the time?”

“Yes.” Stiles couldn’t tell if Peter was lying just to mess with him. If only he had a super cool supernatural power to help him out. Bunch of cheaters.

“I have an Uncle Steve.”

“Lie.”

“I love shrimp.”

“Truth.”

“This is so freaky. What about an ambiguous statement? Like the fish is ready to eat.”

“It would depend on what you thought, I suppose. Most lies people tell are ones they tell themselves, not others.”

“I guess you would know.”

It wasn’t always a one-way exchange—Stiles gave Peter information on patrol routes and potential cases. He described Kate’s daily schedule. Once, he provided a list of potential allergens for everyone in the sheriff station.

Stiles didn’t think he imagined the lingering glances Peter gave him after that one.

For his part, Stiles had never met anyone who tolerated him this long. He knew his faults, knew he could be annoying, intense, bulldozing over boundaries left and right, and had been told so often enough. Peter didn’t seem to mind. He answered all Stiles’ questions, no matter how silly. He spoke up if Stiles made him uncomfortable.

It sparked something tentative and hopeful in Stiles’ chest. A beginning of something, maybe, stretched out before them and glimmering in all its possibilities.

After they committed various crimes, of course. Enemies wait for no man. Seneca said that. Or Plato.

It all culminated one afternoon in a dimly lit corner booth at an Olive Garden, of all places. Stiles had come to the grim conclusion of, “We’re going to need to bring in the FBI.”

“Excuse me?”

Like any self-respecting LEO, Stiles did not like the feds. But they were outnumbered and outgunned. He tried to explain his thought process. “What does Kate value most?”

“The ability to kill indiscriminately and without consequence?” Peter asked. The sad thing was, he was completely serious.

“In a word—power. The power denied her when Gerard took over instead of following the matriarchal right. What gives her that power in Beacon Hills? Her pseudo-military force. How do you bring a pseudo-military force down? Ladies and gentlemen, you bring in the FBI. Ruby Ridge, Waco, they might screw it up and kill a bunch of innocent people in the process but they will do it.”

“And Scott’s father is an FBI agent,” Peter added.

“I’d rather not rely on him—the guy sounds like a real douchebag. I can put out some feelers.”

Stiles allowed Peter time to think it over. From what he’d been told, bringing in an outside party went against the traditional werewolf way. They preferred to solve their own problems, not just as an instinctual response of pack behavior but also to minimize any exposure of their secret. It made Peter’s decision to trust him that much more meaningful.

After a long while, Peter set his jaw, reached into his man bag (“It’s a satchel, Stiles, you wouldn’t know fashion if it punched you in the face”), and dropped a binder on the table with the air of an artist pulling the cover off his masterpiece. “Here is all the information we have on the Argents.”

Stiles whistled at the thickness of it. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“We should have something to show for all these years we’ve spent fighting them,” Peter said with a self-deprecating smile.

Stiles started to flip through it. Honestly, the CCW licenses combined with the Argent Arms company alone would doubtless be enough to get some low-level FBI grunt on the scent. He wasn’t going to say no to a well-developed case, however.

He was a little turned on when he got to the color-coded section. Sue him, a career in law enforcement ensured he would develop a love for a paper trail, and this one was a beauty.

There was a section in the binder simply titled Argent Secrets. Secret stashes, hideaways, lairs, they had it all. “How did you even find some of these?” One was in a cemetery, for crying out loud. Talk about morbid.

“Wolfsbane is both a blessing and a curse for the hunters,” Peter explained. “They use it around all their secret stashes to keep us out, not knowing or perhaps not caring that it leaves a peculiar…residue behind.”

“Is it a taste or smell thing?”

“Not exactly, although if you get close enough it does burn the lungs and obliterate your sense of smell. It’s more like a feeling in the air. A kind of tension,” Peter said, clearly frustrated he couldn’t articulate it better.

Stiles spotted something else and frowned. “Wait a minute, these are color-coded too—Kate and Gerard have different hidey-holes?”

“In some cases, they are family items, which I’ve cross-referenced and marked here,” Peter pointed to a section including a map of intersecting lines and a map key. Stiles could’ve swooned. “And some of them are where they keep their weapons supplies.” Those were marked with a little gun.

Stiles’ eyes caught on one location marked with a big question mark. It was colored puke green for Gerard. He pointed it out. “What about this one, in the old warehouse district?”

Peter made a face. “Kate has no idea about that one. When you gave us the rest of the patrol routes, I was able to piece together a pattern. I haven’t finished drawing it up yet, but essentially every route runs parallel to the locations on this map. None of the deputies patrol anywhere near this one.”

That was strange. Why would Gerard feel the need to hide something from his daughter?

“One more thing,” Peter said. “It’s personal for me.”

“Um, yeah, I kind of figured.”

“Before we get the FBI involved, Gerard and Kate need to die. I’m going to kill them.”

Stiles was in too deep. He knew the kind of man Peter was, had known it from the moment he spotted the man stalking him and didn’t report it. Perhaps it said something about Stiles, that he still allowed Peter to get so close. An unconscious confession, in the same way that someone will look at something they are trying to hide or worry at a broken tooth with their tongue.

Stiles could even rationalize their murders as self-defense, in a way. Normally you could strategically count on your opponents’ fear of being caught by police, but Sheriff Argent was the police, and thus did not feel that fear. She turned Beacon Hills into her own personal fiefdom. She was biding her time shooting fish in a barrel.

“I know,” Stiles said. “I’m going to help you.”

He looked again at the section of the map marked off for Gerard so he didn’t have to see Peter’s face. He could guess what it looked like: raw, open, vulnerable. Basically the way Stiles felt himself.

“Although we might not have to kill both,” Stiles said suddenly. An idea was starting to form in his mind. “We need to see what Gerard is hiding. My guess is it’s a—”

“—failsafe,” Peter finished.

“Right, something’s in there he wants to hide, even from his daughter. And now you have someone who can get past any supernatural defenses.” Everything Stiles had learned about Gerard pointed to a careful, paranoid nature. Someone that walked a knife’s edge in his personal life and extracurriculars, he would have a way to walk away.

The only surprising part was its location in Beacon Hills. Stiles supposed it was for plausible deniability—if Kate ever found it, he could claim he put it there should she ever need it.

All they had to do was get in, see what was inside, and trigger the alarm on their way out. Gerard would be notified and make his way to Beacon Hills ready to give his excuses to Kate. One or the other would most likely end up dead in the ensuing confrontation. In a way, it was ironic they were relying so much on their knowledge of the Argents’ behavior when they insisted on treating anything supernatural like rabid dogs.

“It might work,” Peter whispered like he couldn’t believe it. “As long as I get to kill the other one.”

As if Stiles would doubt his bloodthirsty tendencies.

They sat in silence for a time. Stiles consumed approximately fifty breadsticks.

“It’s not just about the fire,” Peter said abruptly, causing Stiles to choke on his breadstick. He reached into his jacket pocket, the one right next to his heart, and held out a piece of paper towards Stiles. It had clearly been read to the point of falling to pieces, the edges frayed and the folds deeply ingrained.

_Peter,_

_Your visit left me with a bundle of joy. I understand the way things are between us. Her name is Malia Tate. Claim her if you want. Otherwise, I will do what I always do._

_Your Desert Wolf_

“You have a daughter?”

“Talia knew. She had the letter the whole time and protected her as best she could. She didn’t think I had the emotional capacity to become a parent. Years wasted. I could’ve—”

Here he stopped. Stiles understood. Sometimes the lost opportunities were too painful to contemplate.

“We’ll find her,” Stiles promised.

Peter looked at him then with such unbelievable faith that Stiles had to avert his eyes.

* * *

This family is ridiculous, Stiles thought, not for the first time. He and Peter were standing in front of a vault—the ultimate failsafe.

Standard electronic locks, bypassed without a hitch. Stiles hefted his heavy bag of B&E supplies he had brought with him up on his shoulder. He had overprepared. This was even simpler than breaking the wolfsbane line had been.

“That’s it?” Stiles asked, oddly disappointed. Theoretically, it should be a good thing the vault was so easy to break into.

“You were expecting more?”

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Argent’s carelessness is our gain, but still. Shouldn’t he at least have a voice lock or something? And then he could have a recoding of him saying ‘I love werewolves’ as the key.”

Peter snorted. “Clearly they don’t share your mastermind. Or flair for the dramatic.”

“Right? I bet you Hales would at least have a door that could only be opened by a werewolf. Maybe code it to the Hale DNA with saliva or a retina scan. Really make the thieves work for it.”

Peter’s outward demeanor didn’t change but his spine loosened, and he spread his legs out in a deliberately relaxed stance. Stiles suppressed the urge to groan. “Seriously, are you kidding me right now? You have a vault too, of course you do. Is having a vault a regular everyday occurrence and I’m the odd one out?”

“We can discuss it later,” Peter said. His tone was all business but Stiles saw the gleam in his eye that said he was secretly amused. “Maybe for now we should focus on, you know, eliminating a family of serial murderers.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Peter opened the door. Stiles held his breath, some part of him still expecting to hear the shriek of an alarm or be shot in a hail of gunfire as the Argent army flooded the area. He tugged at the edge of his bulletproof vest, its weight like a blanket over his shoulders. Peter had one too, and Stiles made sure it was properly secure at least three times before they set out. Just in case.

There was nothing. No sound except the creak of the door. Could use some WD40. They just didn’t make vault doors like they used to back in his dad’s day, he supposed.

Stiles rather thought there should be a glowing light and a chorus of angels because, “Holy shit,” he breathed.

God bless Gerard Argent’s anal retentive shriveled lump of coal that passed for a heart.

Inside the vault was the cumulation of a family legacy that stretched back generations. Only instead of stacks and stacks of cash or bonds, there were filing cabinets and bookshelves lining the walls. Instead of priceless artifacts and heirlooms, there were laptops and burner phones and flash drives all stored in airtight fireproof containers.

“Jackpot.” Stiles snapped on gloves, booties, and a shower cap and began rifling through one of the filing cabinets. He covertly checked out Peter—nope, the whole plastic getup did not diminish his hotness in any way.

“Why do I look like I’m headed to work at a bread factory and you look like the December model for a sexy jobs calendar?” he asked conversationally.

“It’s all in the attitude, my dear. Speaking of sexy, Talia’s original plan was me seducing you into spilling all your secrets, you know.”

“What, really? How did you guys even know I would go for you?”

“Please. Can you imagine anyone saying no to this?” Peter swept his hands down his body.

Stiles took the opportunity for another ogle. “You have a point.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes.

“So did you want to? Seduce me?”

Peter grinned. Stiles gasped. “You totally did!”

“Maybe when all this is over, we can spend some proper time together. Go on dates in lieu of planning murder.”

“After we find Malia,” Stiles pointed out.

He gulped at the tenderness in Peter’s gaze. “Yes, after that.”

Feeling his ears burn, Stiles went back to the filing cabinets.

“Ohoho, you naughty boy,” Stiles crowed. How time flew when you were having fun!

“Should I leave you two alone?” Peter asked that as if he wasn’t fondling some ancient looking books.

“Listen to this—it’s Gerard’s medical report from five years ago. Diagnosis: terminal cancer. Prognosis: 3-6 months.”

Peter’s head whipped up. “You don’t think…”

“Oh yeah. _Werewolf_ Gerard Argent.”

“Unbelievable.”

Hypocrisy, thy name is Gerard.

They had it all here: names, dates, plans, the blackmail the Argents had collected on the deputies. Plenty of evidence to make the FBI swoon. After they made copies first. And planted cameras all over the vault. A murder caught on camera would be icing on the cake.

The next time someone heard the alarm it would be the sound of an Argent death knell.

* * *

Kate sipped from her #1 Boss coffee cup as she read the latest case file. Her father had strolled into town four days ago and, predictably, wanted everything done his way. Which meant comprehensive reports on all their resident furry problems’ movements. Plus the banshee.

She had been at it for hours now and the letters were all starting to run together. Her bladder reminded her this was her fifth cup of coffee in the last two hours. She felt a bit sick and pulled out some Tums, hoping it would stave off the inevitable heartburn.

The note was sitting on her desk when she got back. Instantly, she drew her gun, doing a quick sweep of her office and the bullpen outside. The sheriff station was a literal fortress, and her underlings knew better than to enter her office without permission. Who could have left it?

She avoided touching it, slowly but surely creeping closer as if it was an active bomb. There were coordinates on it. She plugged them into her phone. The location was in the old warehouse district, a place she was surprised to see she recognized. It was the site of the first Argent Arms International dealership in Beacon Hills. When her father expanded, he had decided the Beacon Hills location wasn’t worth the expense and had closed shop. Why someone would send her there, she had no idea.

Was it one of her father’s men? Her father himself? If the latter, she would need more than her service weapon. She quickly strapped on a couple extra knives, pulled out her favorite shotgun, and made her way to the location.

There was nothing there. No, that wasn’t quite true, she thought as she took a closer look around. There, on a manhole cover, was a faint outline of the Argent wolf. She never would have seen it if she hadn’t been looking for it.

“Sewer crawling is my favorite,” she muttered sarcastically as she tied her hair back. Three big heaves later and the cover was off. The darkness was too thick for her flashlight to penetrate. “Guess I’m going in.”

To her great relief, she did not land ankle deep in shit as soon as she hit the bottom. In fact, there was a long tunnel branching off to the left. What she found at the end nearly made her wish for the shit.

Amazed she got service down here, she called her father. “Hello, dad.”

“Kate, is this important? I’m in the middle of something—”

“That’s funny. I’m in the middle of an underground tunnel with a vault I had no idea existed.”

“I’m on my way.”

The inside looked a little bare. There were bookshelves but no books. There were filing cabinets and boxes full of blank papers. Plastic bins with nothing in them. Her rage grew.

“So it was you,” Gerard said from behind her.

“What is this place?”

“Our legacy. It was to be my gift to you after you finished up your business in Beacon Hills.”

Kate snorted. “Liar. You never had any intention of making me head of the family.”

“Once you proved yourself worthy of handling leadership, of commitment to the cause—”

“The cause? You, of all people, lecturing me about the cause?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Gerard said.

“You think we didn’t know about the cancer? What, suddenly you made a miraculous recovery? Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Please, Kate. You are my daughter.”

“I am what you raised me to be.” She brought her service weapon up, the motion smooth and controlled like they had practiced together so many times before. A squeeze of the trigger and the wolfsbane bullet entered his forehead and splattered out of the other side of his head alongside his much touted brain matter.

“Did you ever love me?” She asked the corpse. It was easier than asking her father. The churning in her gut reached new heights. On high alert, she whipped around at a noise from behind, caught off guard when a wave of intense nausea caused her legs to give out from under her.

Peter Hale. And Stilinski. One of _her_ handpicked deputies, working with the wolves. It was the ultimate betrayal.

* * *

Peter stepped over Gerard’s body. The lights from the cameras blinked red like an Alpha. Seeing Kate’s face, twisted in pain as it was, made the wolf inside of him howl with pleasure. The human part felt sick with fear. He almost jumped out of his skin when Stiles touched the small of his back. A reassurance.

“You should be feeling it now. It starts as gastrointestinal. Nausea, vomiting, lucky for you no diarrhea. Dying in the sewers in a pile of your own shit would be a fitting end for you, I think.” Kate snarled wordlessly.

“Next, the numbness will set in. Tingling in your mouth which spreads to your limbs. When the wolfsbane passes the blood-brain barrier, it will lead to paralysis. Your heart will cease beating.” Here he paused. “That would be too easy.”

Peter could see the helpless fury in her eyes. Finally, finally she would know how the Hales felt before they perished.

“I am a spiritual soul. Eye for an eye.” He held up the lighter, pleased when his hands didn’t tremble. “You know what they say about playing with fire.”

The flames engulfed the room. It was only a matter of time before they reached her and Gerard. He would never forget the sound of her screams as she burned alive, trapped in the bodily prison the wolfsbane had created.

Fire was nature’s best janitor. By the time it was done with the Argents and the vault, there would be nothing left. It would look to an outside observer like a murder suicide.

Once they were back out in the fresh air, Peter smirked but his heart wasn’t in it. “I guess my life is an empty husk now.”

“Not empty.” Stiles squeezed his hand.

Peter thought of the birth certificate and adoption papers he had stored in his own, meticulously fireproofed vault. That wasn’t the only thing. Stiles’ sweaty hand in his own, his presence by his side in the face of such destruction and loss, a kindred spirit found at precisely the right place and time.

Unable to voice any of this out loud, what he said instead was, “Malia.”

“I have some ideas about that,” Stiles said. This time the smirk that crossed Peter’s face was his best one yet. At least until Stiles kissed it right off his face.

* * *

Real estate websites were the bane of Stiles’ existence.

Now that Beacon Hills was a town without Argents or their minions (the files were scrubbed of anything supernatural-related and shipped off to the FBI, who came in guns blazing and dismantled the militia), Peter took advantage of his newfound freedom of movement to go house hunting.

He liked to send Stiles links throughout the day of the stuff he’d found. After the Argent fiasco made headline news, Stiles’ dad had decided to move out to Beacon Hills to “keep an eye on him” but really because he wanted to be near the action. Peter reacted to meeting the parents by insisting on finding a house for Stiles’ dad with a perfect floor plan.

It was hilarious. And adorable.

His desk phone picked that moment to start ringing. “Sheriff Stilinski speaking.”

“Is this that coyote sheriff guy? The one looking for the blue-eyed coyote that escaped from some lab?”

Three months after starting the search for Malia using the extensive law enforcement network he now had access to, Stiles had mostly resigned himself to being known as the coyote sheriff guy for the rest of his life. He was starting to wonder if Peter had been right and they should have just wandered the desert until they found her. It would certainly be less humiliating.

Stiles had come up with a cover story involving a lab studying rare coyote mutations. He had counted on the absurdity of the explanation sticking in the memory of his fellow officers. He was glad to be proven right.

“Yes, this is him. Do you have any information for me?” He fumbled around his desk for a pen and paper.

“Yeah, I’ve got a sighting here in Marysville. Never seen a blue-eyed coyote in my life. Scared me half to death, and then I remembered the sheriff coyote guy. Called you up right away.”

Stiles scribbled down the location of the last known sighting. He almost dropped his phone in his excitement to call Peter. He picked up on the first ring.

“We may have to cancel our lunch plans. I’m stuck in traffic behind the slowest person ever to drive in the history of driving.” Each word was punctuated by a honk.

“Never mind that. We’ve got a lead.”

“...I’ll be there in 10.”

“Try not to kill anyone, please.”

“It’s like you don’t even know me.”

He hung up without so much as a by your leave. Rude. Stiles stuck his head out his office door. “Liam,” he called. “Warn dispatch to disregard any calls about a silver Lexus, license plate 6TRJ244.”

Liam, who was currently filling the role of front desk clerk, grimaced. “Again? At this rate, you’ll never be reelected, boss.”

“Just make the call.” Stiles could only hope he wouldn’t be reelected. He was half convinced the whole thing was a joke, anyway. A parting gift from Talia to drive him crazy. She got to explore New York with her long last children. He was stuck wrangling an entire county. At least the stuffed wolf head had died a fiery death.

Nine and a half minutes later Peter was rushing through the door, not even stopping to harass Liam at the front desk like he usually would. Poor guy looked like the world was ending.

Stiles handed him the information. It was only a five hour drive to Marysville. With Peter’s driving, they might get there in under four. Whether they would arrive at their destination intact or not, Stiles didn’t know.

“Alright,” Stiles said, standing up and holstering his gun. His shiny new badge shone on his chest. “Let’s go get our girl.”


End file.
